Naughty or Nice?. Stephanie BondЧитать онлайн книгу.
live and so will she.”
“I’m glad you’re coming home with me,” Cindy said earnestly. “She’ll believe you if you tell her my haircut is in style.”
“Oh, no. I’m going home with you for baked ham and pecan pie, not to play referee for Joan and Christina Crawford.”
“We’re not that bad,” she retorted, laughing. “Just the normal mother-daughter, tug-of-war relationship. She’ll think you and I are sleeping together, you know.”
His forehead wrinkled. “Is that a compliment?”
“Yes!” She punched him. “And thanks in advance for saving me from the usual harangue about settling down.”
“So, what’s up with that?” he asked, fluffing and spraying her hair.
“My mother?”
“No—you not settling down. Got a bad suit in the old relationship closet?”
Cindy gnawed on the inside of her cheek for a few seconds, pondering the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “I can’t recall any particularly traumatic experiences. On the other hand, I can’t recall any particularly noteworthy ones either.” She shrugged. “I’ve never met a man who appreciates the more unusual things in life. You know, a guy who uses words like ‘happenstance’ and ‘supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.’”
Manny stared.
“Okay, maybe I’m expecting too much.”
But he merely shook his head, tucked her hair behind her ears, and studied the effect. “Nope. Don’t settle, because if you’re like most of my friends—male and female—falling in love will be an agonizing event with a man who represents everything you hate.”
She laughed. “Don’t hold back.”
“I’m serious. Oh, yeah, now they’re giddy with newly-weditis, but right here is the shoulder most of them cried on during the courtship.” He tapped his collarbone. “And frankly, I’m not sure it was worth the trouble.”
Cindy held up one hand. “You’re preaching to the choir. But I am in desperate need of a day off, so I’ve got to find a date for the party even if I have to hire a man.”
He nodded. “Now that’s the ticket—retail romance.” Exhaling noisily, he shook his head at her reflection. “Sorry, Cindy, that’s the best I can do. I must say, though, without all that hair, your eyes really come alive.”
She stared at the bottom layers hanging limply around her shoulders, the top layers hugging her ears. “Thanks, but I simply can’t go around looking like this.” Cindy told herself she was not trying to look good in case she bumped into the man from room 1010 again.
“Just go back to the salon tomorrow and take the advice of the stylist. Their instincts are usually correct.” He gave her a pointed look. “They mess up by trying to satisfy the armchair experts.”
“It looks like I slept with panty hose on my head,” she mumbled.
“Control top,” he agreed.
She stood with resignation. “I have to get back to work—believe it or not, I have more pressing issues at hand than my coiffure.” Like the wad of silk at her back that she still hadn’t had time to take care of.
“Don’t forget to work in some time today for manhunting.”
“With this hair, I’ll need an Uzi to bag a date.”
“Where’s that nice Chanel scarf Mommy dearest sent for your birthday?”
“The yellow one?” Cindy walked over to a bureau and withdrew the filmy strip of silk. “Here. Why?”
“Wrap it around your throat and let the ends hang down your back.” He smiled apologetically. “It’ll draw attention away from your hair.”
She made a face, then followed his advice, checking the result in the mirror. As usual, he was right.
Manny slowly wound the cord of the curling iron. “Cindy,” he said, his voice unusually serious. “You’re worried about this Stanton man coming, aren’t you?”
She caught his gaze, then nodded. “Among other things.”
He sighed. “Just when I was starting to like this crazy place.”
“We’re not out of a job yet,” she assured him. “But I won’t lie to you, Manny—we’re a company stepchild and I suspect Harmon is looking to prune the family tree.”
“This scrutiny could be a good thing,” he pointed out. “Maybe Stanton’s people will see the potential of the old gal and headquarters will throw some improvement funds our way.”
“As long as those funds don’t dictate changing what makes the Chandelier House unique.” She forced a smile. “Just who are you calling an old gal, anyway?”
Manny smiled, his good humor returned. “By the way, since you’re on the make, there was a guy in the lobby this morning who looked like he wouldn’t mind having you in his Christmas stocking.”
She frowned. “Me?”
“Uh-huh. Guy named Quinn.”
Cindy’s pulse kicked up. “Eric Quinn?”
“You’ve already met him?”
Anxious to get it over with, she reached around, stuck her hand down the back of her skirt, and whipped out the pajama pants. “Sort of.”
Manny’s eyes bulged. “You siren, you.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“I think those are the man’s pants.”
“Okay, it is what you think, but I didn’t get them the way you think.”
He crossed his arms. “I guess you expect me to believe you stole them?”
Cindy bit her lower lip.
His jaw dropped. “You stole them?”
She collapsed into a chair. “I don’t believe this day.”
Manny sat too. “Now you’re starting to worry me.”
“I’m starting to worry me. Every time I see Eric Quinn, I end up doing something stupid.”
“Cindy, I’m dying here—what’s up with the silk drawers?”
Just thinking about the incident made the backs of her knees perspire. “I went to his room to handle a simple request. Next thing I know, I’ve cut myself on a freaking clipboard and I’m in his bathroom washing up.”
He made a rolling motion with his hand. “Get to the good part already.”
“His pajamas were hanging on the back of the door. They fell, I picked them up.” She turned the pants around to show him the handprint.
Manny frowned. “So you offered to get them cleaned?”
“Not exactly.” She buried her head in her hands. “I was afraid he’d think I was some kind of pervert stroking his pajamas, so I took them.”
Her friend pursed his lips. “You run this entire hotel, and that was the best plan you could come up with?”
Cindy lifted her head. “It sounded good at the time!”
He took the wrinkled pants by the waistband, then peered closer at the stain, tisk-tisking. “I hate to tell you this, Cindy, but your chances of getting blood out of nonwashable silk are zippo.”
She moaned. “Now what?”
“Beckwith’s,” Manny declared, scrutinizing the label. “It’s a men’s boutique in Pacific Heights that carries this brand.”
Cindy